The happiness, that is. The "nothing is actually terrible"-ness. The "my life won't end if I don't get this internship"-ness (though I would really, really like this internship).
Maybe it's called maturing. Realizing that angst isn't as appealing as it used to be when my future could conceivably consist of nothing but a job within a void of meaninglessness. Understanding that the biggest crises always end.
Or maybe it's called the end of summer. I always end the summer pretty well, full of new hope and delusions about how stressed I'll be during the school year.
But though I've always had something extremely tangible to look forward to (a boy, a position, a last hurrah before graduating), I don't think I've put my metaphorical eggs in any shaky baskets this time. I think I've actually learned something.
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